Chapter Text
“Are you aware of the growing field of research investigating the relationship between shame and sexual preferences?”
“Amber Lord preserve us, here we go again.” Sunday watched as Aventurine rolled his eyes, huffing out a startled breath when Aventurine suddenly slumped forward, letting his forehead thud against Sunday’s chest. “How many times do I need to tell you that the only person who gets turned on by academic articles is you, doctor?”
It wasn’t exactly that the topic had caught Sunday off guard. He’d watched Aventurine shrug off his coat and vest, after all; had watched him roll up the sleeves of his obnoxiously green shirt.
He hadn’t protested, either, when Aventurine had stalked around the long dinner table and wormed his way into the space between it and Sunday’s chair. Sunday still hadn’t learned to expect how startlingly heavy the man was, always lured into complacence by how easily he could look down at the top of Aventurine’s head when they were standing.
He also always seemed to forget how warm Aventurine was when he pressed his torso to Sunday’s, stretching up to press his lips to the underside of Sunday’s jaw, finding every inch of skin that wasn’t covered by his shirt.
“If you cannot contribute anything useful to the conversation, gambler, you should take advantage of the opportunity to practice keeping quiet.”
Veritas Ratio sat at the other end of the table. His notebook was open before him – did he ever go anywhere without it? – and it made Sunday’s eye twitch to see the papers crammed hastily between the pages, some of them falling out across the table. He’d been scribbling into it for some time now, his dinner sitting shoved to the side, untouched.
His dinner, because somehow, this had turned into a habit.
It hadn’t started out that way, of course. Originally, the visits from Ratio and Aventurine had been brief. Check-ins, mandated by the IPC as a condition of his parole. A reminder that even though he had been allowed to return to living in his own home, he was on a leash. As if he were some unruly beast.
They had visited every day at first.
Later, once a week.
Then it had dropped to once a month, until one day Ratio and Aventurine had shown up to see dinner for three sitting on the table.
Nothing fancy, because the conditions of his parole had left his grand household stripped of its servants. Sunday hadn’t realized how difficult cooking was – not until he was standing in the kitchen, staring at the drawers of utensils whose purposes he couldn’t even begin to guess.
But Ratio and Aventurine had sat down as if they saw nothing wrong with the pile of congealed slop that could only be called “pasta” by the most generous of definitions.
And then they’d visited the next week.
And the week after.
Sunday wished he couldn’t say how many dinners it had been before Aventurine had first climbed into his lap.
(Fifty-four minutes and two glasses of wine into the seventh dinner, Aventurine consuming the alcohol in Ratio and Sunday’s stead)
And then that had become part of the pattern too.
Ratio and Aventurine would show up and wouldn’t comment on Sunday’s (slowly improving) cooking. When Aventurine finished eating, he’d walk around the table, bullying his way into Sunday’s lap. Sometimes he wore his coat. Sometimes he didn’t.
He’d stay there until Ratio finished eating. Sometimes, only ten or fifteen minutes. Other times, it felt like hours, Ratio scribbling into his notebook, dinner almost entirely forgotten.
They’d never actually spoken about it.
At least, not until now.
“I printed out some articles of relevance, if you would be interested in perusing them.”
Aventurine snorted, drowning out the sound of paper rustling as Ratio flipped through his notebook. “Fantastic seduction strategy, doctor.”
“It is most certainly no worse than yours.”
“And yet, I’m the only one touching him.”
They are speaking about me as if I am not here.
How was he supposed to feel about that?
“He has not stopped clenching the arms of his chair since you sat down, and his knuckles are white from how hard his grip is. He has not turned his head to look at you and refuses to meet my eyes. A standard interpretation of body language would lead a reasonable person to conclude that your advances are unwelcome.”
“Ah, but–” Aventurine shifted his weight forward, settling himself more heavily on Sunday’s lap– “doesn’t it weaken your hypothesis when his grip isn’t the only thing that’s hard?”
Sunday stared pointedly at a spot on the wall, wondering where things had gone so wrong that he had ended up here.
He forced himself to loosen his grip – when had he started clinging to his chair like it was his only anchor?
His knuckles hurt.
The pain was a welcome distraction, a persistent ache that gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the warmth of Aventurine’s body, the press of Aventurine’s hips against his–
indecent how could a good son of the Oak Family debase himself like this after all I did to give you and your sister a new life not even somebody worthy a former slave of all people
“Hey, birdie. Look at me.”
The brush of cool skin on his face startled Sunday out of his thoughts. Aventurine had taken his gloves off – when did he take his gloves off, he never takes his gloves off – and settled his hand on Sunday’s cheek.
It was jarring enough that Sunday almost forgot to bristle at the insult, eyes opening wide as he tried to find some scathing comment.
And then he did forget, because Aventurine’s face was inches from his.
Your eyes are the color of order.
They were beautiful, piercing, staring through him as if they could see straight to his soul. They left him bare, exposed.
It was a poor facsimile of the way he had felt when he had prostrated himself before Ena, but anything was better than the gap that existed in his life now, the empty void where THEIR presence had been cut from him. It subdued the ache ever so slightly; left him less aware of that hollow space where his telepathy should have been.
There was a light to those eyes now, one that Sunday hadn’t remembered seeing before.
When had that changed?
Have you found something to live for?
But how could he ask that? How could he say anything about Aventurine’s eyes, when he knew their history? Would he be just another man reducing Avgins to nothing more than their appearance?
“Breathe. While I’m certain our doctor could help you, it would put quite a damper on the evening if your heart gave out.”
Sunday could feel his heart pounding in his ears, could feel the way his chest clutched tight was he tried to take a breath, failed, he was always going to fail i’m going to disappoint them why can’t i just breathe like he asked how is it so difficult maybe it would be easier if my heart just gave out but then they’d need to deal with that and haven’t i been enough of a burden failure and those eyes were still so vivid, drawing him in, consuming his thoughts.
There was a scraping sound. The sound of a voice, a thousand miles away, the words impossible to make out.
He couldn’t pinpoint the emotions of the tone, not without his telepathy; was this how other species felt all the time, so dull and isolated? All he could taste was his own panic, the bile rising in his throat.
The eyes pulled away and then another face was swimming in his vision, a warm hand pressing against his throat, two fingers pressing in under the corner of his jaw.
He stared as the man’s lips moved, the words sounding a thousand miles away, impossible to understand through the ringing in his ears.
“Sunday,” the man – Ratio, his mind supplied – said again, and that was easier to recognize. “Sunday, can you tell me what color my hair is?”
The ridiculousness of the question startled him into speaking, mouth moving before he could stop himself. “Blue,” because that was easy, but why on earth did Ratio want to know something as obvious as that?
Or maybe it was a trick, come to think of it, Ratio’s hair was slightly purple, wasn’t it–
“Very good. Five points,” Ratio said, interrupting his thoughts in their tracks. And that was ridiculous too, he wasn’t one of Ratio’s students– “Can you tell me what color Ka– Aventurine’s hair is?”
Sunday forced himself to look away from Ratio, to look past Aventurine’s eyes and up to his hair.
It was easier to avoid getting sucked into that gaze when he had something else to focus on, he realized a moment later.
“Blond.” There was no confusion about that, no potential other colors his hair could be, not like Ratio’s own mixed hue.
Something loosened in his chest with the sound of Ratio’s pleased hum.
“Well done, Sunday.” The pressure on his throat eased, fingers no longer digging into his skin. Sunday sucked in a breath on reflex, only just now becoming aware of how shallow his breathing had become.
His head felt fuzzy, spinning with an entirely too familiar dizziness. The consequences of hyperventilation, his brain helpfully supplied, because this wasn’t new – nor was the shame that followed, the humiliation that he had been so weak, that he had let somebody else see him like this.
“Stay with us, Sunday.”
Why does he keep saying my name? Sunday couldn’t remember if he’d ever heard Ratio speaking so directly before, or in such short sentences. Why was he doing that?
“Can you tell us two things you’re feeling?” Aventurine’s voice, this time.
“Physically feeling, we mean,” Ratio added, as if he could see the way the bile rose in Sunday’s throat at the idea of needing to think about his emotions or, worse, tell somebody else about the panic that was still clawing at his chest.
He cleared his throat, wings fluttering against his shoulders. His body felt far away, all the sensations dulled, as if they were happening to somebody else.
“Aventurine is still sitting on my thighs,” he said, addressing the most obvious sensation first. “He is heavy.” He wasn’t nearly as close as he had been before, Sunday realized now, weight shifted closer to Sunday’s knees, a gap between their hips and chests. It made his knees ache, but Sunday was glad for the breathing space.
“Mhmm, you can thank the doctor’s good cooking for that, not to mention his stubborn insistence upon forcing me to eat three meals a day.”
“Yes, heaven forbid somebody makes you look out for your health, gambler.”
Sunday frowned. How often did the two of them see each other that Ratio could have such control over Aventurine’s life? As far as he was aware, the two were nothing more than uneasy allies. Brought together to keep me in line.
Aventurine shifted in his lap, making Sunday hiss out a breath as his weight made the edge of the chair dig into the back of Sunday’s thighs.
If Aventurine noticed, he didn’t comment on it. “I’m on your lap, that’s one thing you’re feeling. Can you tell us one more? It’ll make Ratio happy; our doctor does love it when his questions are answered.”
He truly, deeply hated the warmth that bloomed in his chest with the idea of getting more praise from Ratio. Why did he have to care so much about the opinions of a man who he barely knew – who, if he was being serious, was little more than a glorified jailer?
“I…” he cut himself off, glancing down in confusion. “You’re holding my hand?”
Aventurine’s fingers were twined with his own. Sunday was surprised to realize how soft his hands were.
A moment later, he kicked himself for that surprise. Aventurine always wore gloves; of course his hands would be soft, especially when he was so dependent on them for his work. Sunday had seen how deftly he could shuffle cards between his fingers, manipulating the deck as if some supernatural power was guiding his hands.
“I am,” Aventurine confirmed. Sunday watched as he moved his thumb, rubbing it in small circles over the back of Sunday’s hand. The sensation was faint, as if it was happening to somebody else’s body. “Is that okay?”
Sunday stared down, not sure how to respond.
Is that okay?
Everything told him that he shouldn’t let somebody touch him like this. This closeness, this familiarity, it was improper. Indecent.
Not befitting of his position, of his family’s status.
He laughed softly.
That was ridiculous, wasn’t it? What did his family’s status matter anymore? Everything had been destroyed in the wake of Ena’s defeat. THEY hadn’t been enough to protect him; THEIR perfect world had been shattered.
At least he had been able to take the burden of the consequences himself.
At least Robin was okay.
He didn’t need his telepathy to be able to understand the blatant look of concern Aventurine shot at Ratio. Why wouldn’t they be concerned? It probably looked like he had lost his last remaining shred of sanity, if they even believed that he had had any left in the first place.
Ratio stood up from where he was crouched next to Sunday’s chair, taking a step back to pick the water pitcher up from the table. He filled Sunday’s glass and turned, handing the glass to Aventurine.
Aventurine offered Sunday a raised brow and a wry smile. “He’s quite the mother hen sometimes, isn’t he?” he murmured under his breath, as if this was some sort of secret joke between just the two of them. “I’d recommend having some water, before he has time to start fretting.”
He didn’t feel particularly thirsty, but Sunday took the glass from Aventurine anyway, taking a shallow sip. This sort of panic was familiar enough to him that he knew he couldn’t trust anything his body felt right now. Better to just have some water, than to risk the inevitable headache that would come if he didn’t.
Neither Ratio nor Aventurine said anything as he drank and when he finished, Ratio held his hand out, taking the glass from him.
“Our apologies,” Ratio said, somewhat stiffly, once he’d put the glass back on the table. “I should have predicted that our actions would come across as overwhelming. We let our enthusiasm cloud our rationality and that resulted in you coming to harm.”
Aventurine rolled his eyes. “What he’s saying is that we both think you’re really hot and it would be really hard to make out with you if you’ve keeled over from a panic attack.”
“Gambler!” Ratio hissed and Sunday was surprised to see how his cheeks went ever so slightly pink. “Did you miss the part where our goal is to not overwhelm him a second time?”
Aventurine shrugged, tilting his head back to look at Ratio, half of a smile on his face. “What?” he asked innocently. “I just said ‘make out’. Perfectly innocent, given we actually want to–”
“What I am saying,” Ratio began, raising his voice to cut Aventurine off, “is that we should refrain from continuing any further tonight, but, if you would be amenable, we could perhaps resume next week. Now that I am aware of what to expect, I believe that we would be able to continue in a way which would inflict minimal stress upon you.”
Sunday was caught unaware by the sudden surge of disappointment that hit him with the idea that Ratio wanted to stop.
He hadn’t wanted to start, so why on earth did he feel upset? Had he not been good enough for them?
He should have known that his panic would ruin things. It always did.
“Hey.” Aventurine squeezed his hand, tugging him back to the present. “You’re okay. You haven’t done anything wrong. We’re not saying no to you, we just want to give you a bit of breathing room. The doctor’s old-fashioned like that.”
“I am not.”
“The doctor–” Aventurine shot a sidelong glare at Ratio– “likes to take his time with things. And honestly, you’d be doing him a favor by caving to his whims, he gets so pouty otherwise. So, do you think you could do that for us, Sunday?”
Sunday’s mouth suddenly felt like it was full of cotton. He wished he had held onto his water glass instead of handing it back to Ratio.
He knew they were both right. Knew it would be a stupid idea to agree to anything right now – hadn’t he seen how bad his impulses could be if he didn’t think things through, didn’t plan? Nothing good could come of listening to his brain while he was panicking; of doing things just to prove that he could.
But a week was a lot of time. Time to think.
Time to hide, to avoid this foolish idea.
Time to change his mind. And what if he did? What if Ratio and Aventurine tried this again and the same thing happened and he couldn’t figure out how to stop it?
“Aventurine and I do not mind deviating from traditional guidelines for consent, but we do require some form of indication that you are comfortable with proceeding, which is something you do not appear to be able to give right now.” Ratio reached out as he spoke, beginning to idly comb his fingers through Aventurine’s hair.
Sunday hated how envious he felt.
Even more, he hated the fact that Ratio was right.
Even if he knew what, exactly, it was that he was agreeing to – he had an idea, of course, but his ideas had rarely been reflective of reality – how would he voice his agreement? It felt impossible to say anything right now, the words dying in his dry mouth.
“We will arrive for dinner at our usual time next week,” Ratio said. Sunday watched Aventurine tilt his head into Ratio’s hand; watched how Ratio scratched behind his ear as if he were a cat. “If you decide that you do not wish to continue, all you must do is prepare dinner as usual. Aventurine and I will understand that you would prefer for things to remain as they are. We will not hold it against you.”
“But if you want to eat something else–” Aventurine made an annoyed sound as Ratio tugged on his hair.
Sunday was beginning to believe he had entirely miscalculated their relationship.
Was it already like this in Penacony? Was I so blinded by THEM that I could not see what was right before my eyes?
Or had this sprung up from the ashes of the theater, in the wake of his own defeat?
“If you wish to continue down this path, do not prepare dinner next week. I presume acquiescence via inaction will be far easier for you than active agreement.”
Aventurine lifted the hand whose fingers were entwined with Sunday’s, tugging Sunday’s hand to his face so that he could skim his lips across Sunday’s knuckles. “Means we’re gonna need to trust you to tell us when to stop, but we can help you figure out how to do that. Veritas isn’t gonna let you get hurt.”
He smiled, and Sunday was startled to see how genuine the expression was. He’d never known Aventurine could look so open; like, for once, he wasn’t neck deep in layer upon layer of schemes.
Sunday wasn’t sure how much he believed that last part, though.
“It’s an open offer, by the way,” Aventurine added. “Maybe it won’t feel right next week. That’s fine. Maybe it won’t feel right for a year, but if, one day, it does feel right, all you gotta do is not make dinner. The doctor’s plenty patient, and you know me. I’m in it for the long gamble.”
He let go of Sunday’s hand then, slowly climbing off Sunday’s lap. Sunday couldn’t help but notice how he clung to Ratio’s arm for support, Ratio stepping forward to help without even needing to be asked.
What would it be like to have someone who understood him so well?
He thought he’d had that once.
How had things gone so wrong?
“Do you have a bathtub, Sunday?” There was Ratio, once again asking utterly ridiculous questions.
Sunday frowned. “Of course,” he managed to say. He wanted to ask why Ratio wanted to know; wanted to ask what importance it was to him, but the words didn’t come.
He was so tired.
That wasn’t unexpected. These attacks always left him weary to the bone, even when he had them on his own. It was so much worse now that there were others to witness him.
He couldn’t tell if Ratio realized that or if there was something else on the doctor’s mind as he unlocked the screen of his phone, glancing at the time.
“It is late, and I believe Aventurine and I have given you enough to think about for one night,” he said, locking the phone and slipping into the back pocket of his pants. “I would like it if you were to take a bath. I find it always helps clear my mind when I am worried. Would you like us to help you start it?”
If only the shame he felt could turn into something physical, so that it could properly bury him under its weight.
He shook his head, scared that if he opened his mouth, some infantile complaint about not wanting to be treated like a child would spill out.
Or, worse, a yes.
Ratio nodded curtly as he walked around to the other end of the table, picking his notebook up from where it lay. “I would appreciate it if you sent me a text message informing me when you finish with the bath, but I understand that you are a grown man. I will not force you to do so to assuage my own concerns if you are not comfortable with it.”
Aventurine looked up from where he was standing, halfway through leaning over to pick his ever-present briefcase up from the floor, and mouthed mother hen at Sunday.
It was so ridiculous that Sunday simply found himself nodding along, not sure how else he was supposed to respond.
Outrage, probably, but that took energy he simply didn’t have.
“Thank you.” The smile Ratio offered him almost made it all worth it. “If you need anything, please understand that you can contact me or Aventurine. We will not be upset if you reach out.”
Sunday nodded again.
They both knew he wouldn’t be reaching out.
He watched them stride across the room, Aventurine following behind Ratio.
Slumped down in his chair when the door closed behind them, too exhausted to even care about how rumpled his clothing was. Stared up at the ceiling, not caring how it made his halo nudge uncomfortable against the back of his chair.
What the hell had he gotten himself into?